Lavender
IT WAS A TUESDAY MORNING, about a quarter past eleven. The little yellow dog hid in among the folds of the drapes, peeking out now and then to see if I was still in the reclining living room chair. Each time he caught sight of me, he bared his teeth and then slowly withdrew into the pale green fabric.
The room smelled of lavender and cigarette smoke.
The ticking of the wind-up clock, which I had carried all the way from France after my discharge, was the only sound except for the occasional passing car. The clock was encased in a fine dark wood, its numerals wrought in pale pink metal—copper and tin most probably.
The cars on Genesee sounded like the rushing of wind.
I flicked my cigarette in the ashtray. A car slowed down. I could hear the tires squealing against the curb in front of our house.
A car door opened. A man said something in French. Bonnie replied in the same language. It was a joke of some sort. My Louisiana upbringing had given me a casual understanding of French, but I couldn’t keep up with Bonnie’s Parisian patter.
The car drove off. I took a deep drag on the Pall Mall I was nursing. She made it to the front step and paused. She was probably smelling the mottled yellow-and-red roses that I’d cultivated on either side of the door. When I’d asked her to come live with us she said, “As long as you promise to keep those rosebushes out front.”
The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. I expected her to lag behind because of the suitcase. She always threw the door open first and then lifted the suitcase to come in.
My chair was to the left of the door, off to the side, so the first thing Bonnie saw was the crystal bowl filled with dried stalks of lavender. She was wearing dark blue slacks and a rust-colored sweater. All those weeks in the Air France stewardess uniform made her want to dress down.
She noticed the flowers and smiled but the smile quickly turned into a frown.
“They came day before yesterday.”
Bonnie yelped and leapt backward. The little yellow dog jumped out of hiding, looked around, and then darted out through the open door.
“Easy,” she cried. “You scared me half to death.”
I stood up from the chair.
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought you saw me.”
“What are you doing home?” Her eyes were wild, fearful.
For the first time I didn’t feel the need or desire to hold her in my arms.
“Just curious,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
I took two steps toward her. I must have looked a little off wearing only briefs and an open bathrobe in the middle of a workday.
Bonnie took a half-step backward.
“The flowers,” I said. “I was wondering about the flowers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They been sittin’ there since the special-delivery man dropped them off. Me and the kids were curious.”
“About what?”
“Who sent ’em.” The tone of my voice was high and pleasant but the silence underneath was dead.
“I don’t understand,” Bonnie said. I almost believed her.
“They’re for you.”
“Well?” she said. “Then you must have seen the note.”
“Envelope is sealed,” I said. “You know I always try to teach my children that other people’s mail is private. Now what would I look like openin’ your letter?”
She heard the
Bonnie stared at me for a moment. I gestured with my right hand toward the tiny envelope clipped to an upper stem. She ripped off the top flowers getting the envelope free. She tore it open and read. I think she must have read it through three times before putting it in her pocket.
“Well?”
“From one of the passengers,” she said. “Jogaye Cham. He was on quite a few of the flights.”
“Oh? He send all the stewardesses flowers?”
“I don’t know. Probably. He’s from a royal Senegalese family. His father is a chief. He’s working to unite the emancipated colonies.”
There was a quiet pride in her words.
“He was on at least half of the flights we took and I was nice to him,” Bonnie continued. “I made sure that we had the foods he liked and we talked about freedom.”
“Freedom,” I said. “Must be a good line.”
